The Gun Show
by LadyDivine91
Summary: Crowley already thinks Aziraphale is a handsome angel. When Aziraphale rolls up his sleeves to move a heavy box, that opinion goes up ten-fold. Aziraphale x Crowley


_**Notes:**_

_**For good Omens prompts: I'm a sucker for forearms. Can you wrote something where Crowley either short circuit or drool over Zira with rolled up sleeves showing a warriors forearms with his soft padding. I'm weak...**_

"What … on Earth … is _that_?" Crowley asks, sauntering into Aziraphale's shop and greeted not just by its smiling proprietor, but a large, wood-slate crate, roughly the size and shape of a … well, the size and shape of a body, to be honest. Aziraphale does get the occasional delivery, and large boxes are the norm, but a _body-shaped box_? And on a Wednesday?

That would be a first.

Crowley is intrigued.

"This, my friend," Aziraphale says, lifting the lid for the demon to see, "is an ancient Egyptian sarcophagus."

Crowley raises his glasses to get a better look, both eyebrows bouncing to his hairline as his eyes trace the intricate details on the lid. "Is it real?"

"Afraid so. With the original occupant inside, no less."

"That's a bit unsettling, isn't it?" Crowley asks, helping Aziraphale slide the lid back into place. "Where'd you happen upon _this_ thing?"

"Apparently I ordered it from the Neiman Marcus catalogue."

Crowley chuckles at the _apparently_ portion of that reply. "You don't know?"

"No, I _do_ know," Aziraphale explains, grabbing a hammer and tapping down nails in the edge of the lid to seal it shut, "except it was supposed to be an antique coffee table. They sent me this monstrosity by mistake."

"Are you gonna keep it?" Crowley asks hopefully. He has forever suspected, as has Aziraphale, that if his shop isn't outright haunted, it may have a hint of sentience to it. Having a real Egyptian mummy in the place could prove very interesting.

Or amusing, at least.

If the guy suddenly springs to life and decides to take a stroll around the place, Aziraphale should have no problem whatsoever keeping customers out of his shop.

"Heavens no! I'm having the poor man shipped to a museum in Cairo. Maybe they can find him a suitable home. Seemed like the right thing to do."

Crowley watches Aziraphale size up the box, lifting the narrowest side cautiously, testing its weight.

"What are you doing?"

"Well, the shipping company can't pick him up till tomorrow, and I don't need Trevor here …"

"Uh … you named him Trevor?" Crowley interrupts.

"Yes." Aziraphale removes his coat and lays it carefully over the counter. "You don't like it?"

"No, no … it's fine, it's fine. Just curious why you were giving me such a row about _Anthony_ all those years ago and you come up with _Trevor_ is all."

Aziraphale stares at the demon with the deadpan expression of a man who has just had a small dog wee on his new shoes. "Like I was saying – I don't need _Trevor_ here cluttering up my shop, so I'm going to put him upstairs for the time being."

"Are you going to carry him up there then?" Crowley asks as Aziraphale unbuttons his cuffs.

"Of course."

"Why don't you simply miracle him upstairs?"

"I know it's probably the nature of my relationship with Gabriel that keeps me from using magic as often as you do, but not everything requires a miracle, dear boy." Aziraphale rolls his cuffs up to his elbows, then crouches down and grabs both sides of the box. "Sometimes all that's needed … _grrr_ … is a little … ngh … elbow grease."

Aziraphale lifts, his muscles bulging under the weight, and Crowley's eyes go wide.

Crowley has never seen Aziraphale in anything sleeveless before. Aziraphale happens to be a delightfully chubby angel and Crowley quite likes that about him. He's handsome and soft; wears his weight well, in Crowley's opinion. But he begins to realize (as Aziraphale hoists the end of the box into a comfortable carrying position) that some of what he'd mistaken for fat was, in fact, muscle – his forearms in particular remarkably cut for an entity that spends most of their time eating crepes and reading books. _Where had all that muscle come from?_ Crowley asks himself, jaw dropping in amazement as Aziraphale lifts the end of the box with little effort and dragging it across the room toward the stairs. It's quite the contrast aside his plump tummy, but there's something rather appealing about it – knowing that beneath his vintage trappings, Aziraphale has the arms of a Greco-Roman wrestler.

"All righty then." Crowley tosses off his glasses completely and drops down on the sofa, splaying himself about, and miracles himself a bag of popcorn. Aziraphale catches sight of his shenanigans and frowns.

"What are you doing?"

"I'm getting ready for, as they say in America, _the gun show_," Crowley replies affecting a disturbing American accent.

Aziraphale shakes his head as he maneuvers the box toward the spiral staircase. "You're ridiculous, do you know that?"

"Yes, but you love me for it," Crowley says, tossing a piece of popcorn in the air and catching it in his mouth.

Aziraphale stops dragging. "Do I?" he asks, staring up at the ceiling. Crowley sits up, ready to argue, but Aziraphale cuts him off at the knees. Grinning, he says, "Yes, I do. Now get off your behind and lend me a hand!"

"Absolutely. Never thought you'd ask." Crowley hops off the sofa, leaving a small mess of popcorn behind. He approaches the box, eyeing it up critically, but instead of grabbing a corner, he snaps his fingers, miracling the box upstairs.

"Crowley!" Aziraphale complains, but Crowley wraps Aziraphale's arms around him, winding them tight, pleased as punch to have those muscles holding him now that he can see them.

"There you go. Hand lent. All done. And now …"

"And now _what_?"

"_Now_ …" Crowley runs his hands down Aziraphale's arms as far as he can reach, chewing the inside of his cheek as his fingertips slide their way over defined lines and firm muscles "… I think you and me have some very important cuddling to do."


End file.
